Goals After Grief: Gentle, Practical Steps to Move Forward After Loss

The goals you set today may start to resemble a life you can bear again...learn seven tips to help you along your grief journey. https://bit.ly/459zfAR

Start healing after loss with these gentle, practical steps. Find guidance on managing grief, embracing routines, documenting your journey, and building a supportive community. 

In this Episode:

• 03:22 - Road Trip to Florida: Skunk Ape and Strawberry Shortcake
• 07:00 - Goals After Grief: Starting Where You Are, By Lucy Tate
• 15:48 - The Weight of Grief: Lessons in Compassion and Loss by Jeffry Fischer, RN
• 21:34 - Outro

Incremental Goals Lead Forward

When the noise fades, what you’re left with are quiet, flickering choices. They don’t ask you to be productive or even hopeful. They ask you to stay. And one way to do that is to pick a direction, however small, and move toward it with all the gentleness you can manage. 

Lucy Tate shared with us seven ways we can form small, incremental goals to get our feet back under us after a loss. You can also read it in its entirety in this blog post. 

The Weight of Grief: Lessons in Compassion and Loss
In his American Journal of Nursing article, Jeffry Fischer, BSN, RN shared his experience with a dying pancreatic cancer. This particular situation unearthed Jeffry’s own unresolved grief “attempting to steal [his] compassion” as he shielded his heart. He wrote that “for the rest of us, “it takes courage to carry on with that weight, to let it shape us rather than consume us, to find meaning in memories without being buried by them.”

Chapters

• 0:00 Intro
• 3:22 Road trip to Florida: Skunk Ape and Strawberry Shortcake
• 7:00 Goals After Grief: Starting Where You Are, by Lucy Tate
• 15:48 The Weight of Grief: Lessons in Compassions and Loss by Jeffry Fischer, RN
• 21:34 Outro

Transcript

Hello, and welcome to Everyone Dies, the podcast where we talk about serious illness, dying, death, and bereavement. I'm Marianne Matzo, a nurse practitioner, and I used my experience from working as a nurse for 47 years to help answer your questions about what happens at the end of life. And I'm Charlie Navarette, an actor in New York City, and here to offer an every person viewpoint to our podcast.

We are both here because we believe that the more you know, the better prepared you are to make difficult decisions in a crisis. Also, this podcast does not provide medical or legal advice. Please listen to the complete disclosure at the end of the recording.

Welcome to this week's show. We're so glad to have you join Charlie and me for the next hour as we talk about having goals while grieving. This podcast is a combination of education and entertainment, otherwise known as edutainment, delivered in three halves.

Our main topic's in the second half, so you can fast forward to that natter-free zone if you'd like. In the first half, Charlie has our recipe of the week and a bit of Florida lore. And in the second half, I'm gonna talk about grieving and having goals as you go through that process.

And in the third half, Charlie has a piece about the weight of grief. So, hot enough for you, Charles? Yeah, but what really bothers me, it's like everyone just talks about the heat. And yeah, I know it stinks, but I think people just make it worse on themselves.

How do we make it worse on ourselves? Because everyone just, oh, it's so hot. I can't do anything. It's just, to me, it's just the more you complain about it.

Yeah, I mean, you know. Well, you know what feels worse is I was up at 6 a.m. yesterday to get out in the garden. And I just needed to water some plants and do some maintenance.

And it was so hot that I kept dumping the hose on myself. And I'm, what, 68 years old, drinking from the hose. You know? And by the time I came in, I was like, I look like a drowned rat from the humidity and the heat and dumping the hose on my head.

And, you know, I did what I needed to do. I was out there for three hours, but it was miserable. But then did you go out and complain to everyone about it? I'm complaining now.

Okay, you're complaining now. Yeah, but you have a full life. You don't sit around just complaining about the heat.

You do things. Even like, you know, getting up that early so that it's a little cooler. You know, a little water for the plants, a little water for you.

A little water for the plant, a little more water for you. I get that. But then your day goes on.

That's what I'm saying. A lot of people just, this just seems to stop them in their tracks. Well, maybe they want to talk about the weather because other things are too distressing.

Yeah. Everyone Dies travels to Florida this week. Don't ask why we are in Florida in July.

Florida is home to the Florida Man phenomena. The term Florida Man has become a cultural meme referring to a series of bizarre and often humorous news headlines involving individuals from Florida. The phrase typically precedes an outrageous act or crime such as Florida Man Arrested for Wrestling Alligator.

I hope Gator has a new pair of shoes. This phenomena can be attributed to a combination of Florida's diverse population, the state's open records laws, and the prevalence of sensational news coverage. While the stories can be amusing, they also highlight the unique quirks of Florida's residents.

And speaking of quirky, Florida is also home to the skunk ape. Florida's mythical creature that roams the swamps is said to be the skunk ape, a seven foot tall, 400 pound mysterious beast that hails from Copey, Florida. Skunk apes have only four toes and their long shaggy hair, often described as reddish, though sometimes black, more closely resembles an orangutan than a gorilla.

As for the skunk ape's infamous odor, well, that's often attributed to the Everglades swamp gas clinging to their fur, combined with poor hygiene habits. Their foul aroma has also earned them such mean nicknames as the stink ape, the swamp monster, the skunk monkey, the barden booger, and the sunshine snake. One favorite theory regarding the possibility of skunk ape being real is that they could be the evolutionary offshoots of Jaykentopithecus, a colossal primate that lived millions of years ago.

Though Jaykentopithecus fossils are usually only found in Asia, cryptozoologists, and who knows more about crypto than Florida, speculate that these creatures could have crossed an ice bridge to North America, which is, for the record, believed to be the way that humans did it to avoid border guards. One factor that particularly works in the skunk ape's favor with this theory is that Jaykentopithecus' closest living ancestor is the orangutan. You will recognize them by their orange hair pigmentation.

Not only are skunk apes said to resemble giant orangutans, but orangutans live far more solitary lives than other apes, which would line up with skunk ape's behavior. In Florida's version of strawberry shortcake, a pillowy biscuit split and filled with berries and whipped cream is our recipe of the week. Grab some strawberries to make this treat for your next funeral lunch.

Bon appetit, y'all. Please go to our webpage for this week's recipe for Florida's version of strawberry shortcake and additional resources for this program. Everyone Dies is offered at no cost, but is not free to produce.

Can we count on you to contribute? Your tax-deductible gift will go directly to supporting our nonprofit journalism so that we can remain accessible to everyone. You can also donate at www.everyonedies.org or at our site on Patreon under Everyone Dies. Marianne.

Thanks, Charlie. Our topic today is goals after grief, starting where you are. And this was written by Lucy Tate, who contacted us and wanted to contribute to the work here at Everyone Dies.

So thank you, Lucy, for sending this in. And if others have things that they would like to write, you can send them to me, Marianne, M-A-R-I-A-N-N-E at everyonedies.org. That's E-B-E-R-Y, the number one dies.org. It's not easy to think about goals when everything inside you has collapsed. That familiar talk about just put one foot in front of the other can feel cruel when the ground itself is gone.

But something strange happens after loss. The noise fades. And what you're left with are these quiet, flickery choices.

They don't ask you to be productive or even hopeful. They ask you to stay. And one way to do that is to pick a direction, however small, and move toward it with all the gentleness you could manage.

So you need to start small, stay steady. You don't need a five-year plan. You don't even need a five-day plan.

What you might need is a nap or a reason to get out of bed or just someone to nod when you say, I couldn't do much today. That's fine. You're building something.

And small doesn't mean meaningless. Try to set incremental goals each month, things that ask for effort without demanding your soul. Maybe it's brushing your teeth every morning or replying to two emails or walking to the end of your street.

Let your wins be tiny and real and yours. Document your healing. Write it down, not for a therapist or a memoir, even for later, just for now.

The act of journaling forces your mind to slow down and sit with what's swirling. A personal healing journal doesn't have to be poetic, deep or daily. It just has to be yours.

If you want a way to save or revisit your entries, PDF Editor is an online tool that turns your notes into PDFs and you can store it or edit it. You can upload a file, make changes and download it again. Simple, private and practical.

The power of routine. After loss, time becomes jelly. Hours slide into days and nothing sticks.

That's where routine comes in. Not as discipline, but as scaffolding. If you establish a routine, you're giving yourself a place to land, even if the landing is soft and wobbly.

Eat at the same time every day, shower in the morning, light a candle at night. These things won't heal you, but they might hold you. In grief, repetition isn't boring, it's anchoring and it reminds your body that time hasn't stopped.

Even if it feels like it has. Next, move your body, ease your mind. You don't have to train for a marathon, just have to move.

Cry while you walk, scream into your pillow during a stretch. Grief lives in the body. And one way to loosen its grip is to keep the body moving through it.

Even light exercise can be a kind of pulse check, a way to say, I'm still here. Regular movement can help regulate your sleep cycle and let's be honest, sleep's a mess when your heart's broken. This isn't about getting fit, it's about making space for your nervous system to breathe.

A new chapter through education. Grief is the rudest kind of ending, but sometimes it can also mark a beginning you didn't ask for, but still got to shape. Going back to school isn't a fix, but it can be a counterweight, a structured forward-facing thing.

Learning wakes up different parts of your brain. One that's too busy to spiral. The beauty of online programs is they meet you where you are, pajamas and all.

Whether you're drawn to teaching, nursing, or a business degree, there's probably a track that fits your schedule and mental bandwidth. And the sheer fact of learning something new can be its own kind of bomb. Build a support network.

You're not supposed to do this alone, and yet so often you are. The people who swore that they'd be there ghost you while others you barely know show up with soup. Let them.

Let it be awkward, let it be uneven, but don't stay in your silence. There are ways to find a grief support group, online, person, faith-based, secular, structured, loose. Try one.

If it's not a fit, try another. Somewhere out there, someone who won't flinch when you say the hard thing, and that's worth searching for. And lastly, self-care isn't selfish.

You've heard this one before, and maybe it makes your eyes roll, but you know what? You're allowed to treat yourself like you matter, because you do. Grief doesn't cancel out your right, or joy, or comfort, or even indulgence. Take a damp.

Order the takeout. Say no to things that drain you. There's nothing performative about tending to your own life.

If you need a reason, call it survival. The importance of self-care during grief isn't a hashtag, it's a practice, and one that doesn't require an explanation. None of this is a prescription.

There's no neat little checklist that makes grief easier, but there are ways to stay soft inside the ache, to create little footholds where your future self can one day step. You get to choose what matters now, even if the choosing feels impossible. And slowly, without warning, the goals you set today may start to resemble a life you can bear again.

Not the same life, never the same, but one that still belongs to you. Any thoughts, Charlie? Yes. With my own situation and dealing with loss, without realizing it, and this happened during COVID for me, when my son was killed, again, without realizing it, I sat by a window and where I was house-sitting at the time, they had huge windows, and I just took comfort just sitting in that sunlight.

Yeah, and I didn't realize it at the time how much I needed light. I was really just grateful for that old house and those huge windows. Yeah, that sunlight was just very soothing.

And sometimes I just sat, sometimes I would read, sometimes I would listen to music, but it was always in that sunlight, and that was very, very healing for me. Yeah, and there's still times today, you know, the depth of the grief is not like it was years ago, but it's still there and really rears its ugly head sometimes, and I just let it. As you were saying, don't fight it, it's there.

Take that maybe just a few moments, it might be a couple of hours, but you just take care of yourself. So yeah, yeah, thanks for that. For our third half, The Weight of Grief, Lessons in Compassion and Loss by Jeffrey Fisher, R.N. Slim, a fitting moniker for the man lying in a hospital bed in front of me, his once strong frame now with little muscle left to be seen.

His chief complaint, failure to thrive. Those aren't his words. When November comes, I'm going to take my family on a vacation.

We can all use a vacation, he says, his voice determined as I changed the saturated dressing around his G-tube one last time. Slim, a Marine who not long ago led others with confidence into battle. A strong, vibrant husband and father of two beautiful children, now in a battle for his life.

This enemy has no uniform. It waged its war silently, creeping through his body unnoticed until it was too late to defend against it. The diagnosis, metastatic pancreatic cancer received less than six months ago, caught him by such surprise that he had little time to process it.

Before I took over care of Slim, the departing day shift nurse noted that he was the poster child for resolve. He never complains and is always appreciative, she remarked. She expressed concern that he might not fully grasp the seriousness of his condition.

Pancreatic cancer symptoms are often vague or absent. Like most opinions received during handoff, I took that information into consideration, preparing to draw my own conclusions. Our conversations at the start of the shift were cordial.

We immediately bonded over being fathers of young children. Over the evening, we exchanged photos, laughed about the silly things our kids do and lifted each other up in the areas we felt we could be better dads. But as night set in, Slim's tone shifted from determined to desolate, like the fading light yielding to darkness.

His resolve to keep his fears at bay gradually dissipated. Staring out the window as if November were just on the other side, he held my hand as he began to weep. I am not ready to die, he said.

His weeping deepened and the weight of his fear settled heavily over the room. He looked at me as if searching my eyes for answers. As a nurse in the surgical oncology ICU, I witnessed grieving more often than I wish, but this felt different.

It was as if his fear had reached out, unearthing my own grief. I was no longer a witness to his despair, but a participant in it. It is particular how we process loss as nurses.

We cope in ways that outsiders might not understand. Dark humor often conceals our bewilderment, while moments of solitude offer enough time to shed a tear and tuck away our grief in a corner we hope to misplace. The cynicism and isolation helped momentarily, but the pain often lodges deeper, unprocessed, settling in like silt.

Slim's vulnerability flooded me with a familiar ache of a loss that comes too fast before you have time to understand what is happening. Five years ago, a single moment changed everything. My wife's family and I watched in horror as my brother-in-law, James, a tall and enthusiastic, selflessly kind man, collapsed suddenly in his parents' hallway.

We attempted to revive him, but his heart was in pulseless electrical activity, a term forever embedded in my lexicon of loss. Paramedics arrived and launched into a relentless cycle of compressions and epinephrine. I remember scanning the room, heavy with shock and disbelief, as we tried to make sense of the scene unfolding in front of us.

I held my father-in-law, his anguished cries filling the room. My boy, my boy, not my boy. His grief became the soundtrack of that day, a memory that settled deep in my soul.

Sitting with Slim, I wondered how many patient rooms I had entered leaving my heart at the door in an attempt to protect myself. I now realized that my grief for James was not separate. It was bound with every patient I had ever stood beside in loss, especially those whose passing came too quickly.

Every silent farewell I had uttered only in the privacy of my heart. Slim passed the next day. Slim, a man who even in his passing helped me face the unresolved grief attempting to steal my compassion.

Maybe in a way, he did reach that November, a place of rest beyond his pain, free from the weight of the battles he could no longer fight. But for the rest of us, it takes courage to carry on with that weight, to let it shape us rather than consume us, to find meaning in memories without being buried by them. Wow, that was really powerful, wasn't it? It was, it was, Marianne.

Please stay tuned for the continuing saga of Everyone Dies, and thank you for listening. This is Charlie Naborette, and from Herbert Hoover, 31st President of the United States, older men declare war, but it is youth that must fight and die. And I'm Marianne Matzo, and we'll see you next week.

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